Lady in Red
by cotesgoat
Summary: Victorian era Tiva AU. Ziva is forced, by her aristocratic father, to attend a masquerade ball, and find a husband. There she meets Tony, a servant, who is far below her in society's hierarchy, but somehow, still manages to sweep her off her feet. T/Z
1. Masquerade Ball

**So basically it's the Victorian era, and Ziva is the upper class, wealthy daughter of Eli David, and Tony is a servant. They meet accidentally at a masquerade ball, and well.. that's all im giving you! I'm not sure if I should leave this as a one shot, or continue it as a multi chapter story. Input would be lovely. Thank you!**

**Oh! And the sentence that is underlined is not mine. It comes from the fabulous writeworld on tumblr.**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own NCIS or it's characters. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, instead, I probably would have made our beloved Ziva's exit better, but...**

**OMG THIS IS SO OOC IM SORRY IM SORRY IM SORRY **

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**Lady in Red**

**T**he large, extravagant ball room was filled with royals, high class drunks and tipsy aristocratic leaders (not that there was much of a difference, in her opinion): people she wanted to avoid at all costs. The only real reason she was there was because she was the first-born bachelorette daughter of the élite and (not so) noble Eli David, and he just _insisted _she went, creating many polysyllabic utterances about how she had to marry rich soon, and keep the "all too important" David blood line running. She refused, as she would rather be running around, playing games at the estate with her young sister, Tali, or reading a book whilst drinking the warm tea her servant Elizabeth would prepare for her. Still, her father made it mandatory for her appearance, and forced her to go to this blasted masquerade ball.

Her dress was a beautiful red, with black detail, and was held together with a tight corset at her stomach. A black lace was trimmed around the top and bottom of sweetheart-neckline bodice, and her hair fell gracefully down her back, in fashionable, loose, brown ringlets. She opposed the lacy black gloves that adorned the dress, so she simply left them at home, sure to hear from her father later about her decision. The mask was the final touch, mandatory for the occasion. It was a simple rose colored mask with a ribbon holding it together behind her head. The other masks were outlandish, with gaudy feathers, and vibrant jewels that screamed their owner's place in society. She, instead of mingling with the drunks, opted to stay alone, likely getting a scolding from her father later (on top of the other, of course) fro not bringing home a new courter. Ziva was stubborn, and believed the whole thing was absurd. She, like her sister, would much rather do something in life, than waste away with someone she did not care much about.

She was on her third drink, her mask still covering her face, when he stumbled into her, knocking the glass out of her hands, and onto the marble floor, shattering it instantly. She expected everyone to gasp, and the servant to be kicked out, or scolded but the members of the ball were far too invested in their own personal matters than to notice.

_"Oh dear! My apologies, Mademoiselle." _He was a servant, supporting a large silver platter in his left hand, dawning a grey double-breasted vest, with the formal Victorian white shirt and silver pocket watch. He, however, was not wearing a mask, and the signs of trauma were clear on his face. He was handsome, she noticed, with sparkling green eyes, and gently tussled hair. He then dropped down, picking the glass pieces off the ground with his crisp, white gloves. She stared at him, before, too, dropping to the floor and retrieving the broken pieces. He seemed confused by this action, as _he _was the servant, and she should seem revolted by his original actions... everyone else would, right? Still, he said no words, and left her to collect the pieces with him. When the last glass shard was in their hands, he held out his platter, and she placed the fallen pieces on, hearing the slight clanking sound it created.

"Allow me to fetch you another drink, Mademoiselle." He spoke softly to her, standing up, and grabbing the platter.

"There is of no use, I have already had three."

"So about a third of everyone else?" He joked, and she scoffed, revealing her smile. "I am certain everyone here is drunk, but I would hardly believe that you are,_ Mademosielle_."

"Not nearly." she replied, "And, although the champagne is divine, I did not come here to get drunk off it."

He chuckled, helping her off the floor, "So why are you here? Politics? Marriage? For the Dancing?"

She replied with a curt nod, although not saying which one, and her eyes danced around the room. Men and what she presumed to be business partners chatted, and nubile women flaunted their best aspects, hoping to catch the eye of a wealthy, high class bachelor. The band in the corner was composed of two pianists, a violinist, and several middle-aged men playing the new, and ever popular guitar. The song they were playing was up beat, but they then changed to a more mellow, slow song. She recognized it rather quickly, as it was played at the ball her father held a week prior.

"This is my favorite song." She mentioned to the servant about the ballad.

"Well than," He said, with a smile gracing his features, "You shall be needing a partner to dance with." Just then, he straitened his suit, placed his platter on the table next to her, gave a small bow, and held out his hand.

"Oh no,_ I do not dance_."

"Act like you're just with me." She breathed in heavily, but curtsied in return. She was surprised by his actions, as he was not supposed to be dancing at the ball, with nonetheless _her,_ an aristocrat's daughter, but she grabbed his hand, and placed her other on his shoulder, as she had practiced with her younger sister before. His hand fell to the back of her red ball gown and led her around the room in tiny, graceful circles. The music swelled, washing over them in waves as they whirled around the dance floor between the other couples. He would occasionally look at Ziva's rose colored lips, and she would freely part them and tilt her head, giving him full access to kiss her, but he knew his place in society, so his longings were forbidden. But even behind the rose-tinted mask she wore, he could see the hurt look in her eyes when he had pulled away. She gracefully pushed her body closer to his, and lay her head on his neck, basking in his glorious scent. She smelt something distinctly _him,_ and though she hadn't even known his name, she was drawn towards him almost immediately. She too, knew that she, as a duchess, was far above him in the hierarchy, but couldn't resist the longing she felt towards the stranger.

"Tell me, _Monsieur_, why is it that you cannot kiss me?"

He smiled, a bit sadly, and replied; "Because you are you, and I am me. And If I kiss you, I will have to let you go."

She listened to his words, frowning at the cold, hard, depressing truth behind it, and concluded the dance. She gave a final curtsy, and drew her mouth to his ear. He felt her hot breath liking at his neck, tantalizingly. "Come with me." She grabbed his hand, leading them from the ball room. They fled through thin hallways, and he wondered how she knew her way around the palace, presuming she had never been here before. They escaped through to another smaller, empty room, decorated with pictures of past residents, and England's kings and queens.

When their small journey ended, they were outside, millions of small stars illuminating the black sky. It was in a small gazebo, quiet and peaceful, where they stood, staring into the eyes of the other, mesmerized. He tucked a loose curl behind her ear, and sat relaxed on the bench below him.

"I must know your name," she replied, sitting next to him.

"And I must know yours, _Mademoiselle_." he replied.

"I am Ziva."

"And I am Anthony."

"Worthy of praise." She commented.

"Does yours mean beautiful?" She laughed at this. She knew he was flirting with her, as he hadn't really seen her full face, because she had never taken off the mask she was hidden behind.

"You are flirting with me, yes?" And it was his turn to laugh, and he ran a hand through his brown hair.

"That depends, _Miss Ziva,"_ he tested her name on his tongue. "Would you like me to?"

"Well, _Monsieur Anthony, _do _you_?"

With the single sentence, the romantic tension rose between the two, and he had the urge to see just who it was behind the rose colored mask.

He shook his head slightly, and reached over to cup her tan face in his hand. _"Just who are you, Miss Ziva?"_

_"Why don't you find out?" _

He reached behind her head, touching the soft ringlets of chocolate hair, he tangled his hand in it, pulling her head up gently. His lips touched hers, and she leaned into the kiss. It was passionate and tender, and something neither of them had ever experienced before. Her tongue entered into his mouth, and he gently sucked on it, before his explored his sweet, champagne-tasting mouth. The warmth exchanged by the two was beautiful, and neither wanted to escape. But, before long, oxygen was apparent, and their mouths retreated from the kiss. Their eyes opened, and were greeted with equivalent smiles from the other person.

"_Anthony.."_

His hand still lay tangled in her hair when he said her name in response. His fingers played with her hair, and his other hand reached behind her head again, finding the lacey ribbon tie for her mask. He slowly untangled the ribbon, and when the knot was out, his fingertips grazed along the edge of her mask, down to her cheekbone, still holding the mask to her face.

"I assure you, Anthony, I will not disappear when you take down my mask." She whispered.

"Promise?" he chuckled.

"You have my word." she laughed.

He lifted the mask off her face, slowly, he didn't quite know why he was afraid to see her face. Maybe he would fall in love with her, he thought, more than he already was in that short period of time he knew her. When the mask was completely off, he knew he was correct before; she _was _beautiful. Gorgeous, actually.

"You are beautiful,_ Mademoiselle_." He said, placing the mask on the bench behind him. A smile was on her face, now, and her mahogany eyes were filled with a beautiful desire, he couldn't quite place his finger on. She kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, feeling a beautiful warmth in on his lips. Neither had ever felt such passion and desire, and with each kiss the ardor grew.

The masquerade ball behind them was still abiding, but was nonexistent to the lovers. All that was real was the him and her, the two forbidden lovers, falling in love, each kiss at a time.

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**AN1: ****I wrote out the entire thing after where they first met, and it was pretty good in my opinion, and I ACCIDENTALLY FORGOT TO SAVE IT. Arg. So, I had to write the entire thing (from where the first met) again. And we all know the second one is never as good as the first. Sigh.**

**AN2: Oh and, I like how I used Monsieur and Madame, when in my head this is set in England. Whoops. **

**AN3: I might go get some Frozen yogurt, would any one like any?**

**AN4: Por Favor: tell me if I should leave this as a one shot or continue you it!**


	2. Old Friends

Hello, again! **xxtivazonexx** commented that Ziva would be called mademoiselle, and yes, that Is true. (I'm fluent in French, and a few other languages.) I just figured that since she had never quite told him she was married, and she seemed to be older than 19 (or younger. They actually got married quite young back then). But, alas, you are very much correct, and I deserve a big head slap. I have changed the names, so I thank you my lovely reviewer.

disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any character mentioned in this story. I do, however, own a hat, in which i am wearing right now.

Summary: Ziva is a wealthy daughter of an upper class aristocrat who forces her to attend a masquerade ball and find a husband. There she meets Anthony, poor servant, who sweeps her off her feet.

Okay, so this part is important. A lovely reviewer (athenalarissa) commented that I should make Tony not really a servant, but rich in disguise. This would be because he's trying to marry for love, not money. So that I shall do. It reminded me of "_The Prince and Me" _with Julia Stiles.

Also, my apologies for delaying this an incredible amount. I've been rather busy with schooling, and all that good stuff, but school is almost out, and I will be able to update a fair amount over the summer months.

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**No. 18 Upper Regent Street**

**London, 1842**

**T**he floors that he steps on are not quite worn yet, and frankly, Anthony doubts will ever be familiar enough to be. Still, he mentally crosses his fingers behind his back, in hopes of the slightest chance to stay long enough to be able to wear in the floors with the heels and shoes his father's guests with wear. Its not for the beautiful, creamy, marble floors, or the mesmerizing view he's currently staring at, but for the girl he met the night prior, the one he had shared kisses and a dance with, but yet failed to take her home. His peripheral vision tells his that there are now gentle snowflakes falling on the frozen Thames, and he aches to run outside and throw snowballs with the neighbor's children. However, he know that it's incorrect for him, due to the aristocratic blood pulsating through his veins (and, the fact that he is nearly twice the age of the neighbor's 12 year old son).

A tap on the shoulder interrupts his mind's ramble, and he turns around to find George, his father's servant, asking if Anthony would fancy any tea. He declines, and his mind begins on another journey, to the topic pf the masked ball. Anthony cannot help but to feel guilty- and he does- as he had caused the girl the impression the he was a servant, not that he was the only child of a (former) blue blood.

He slightly cringes at the former placed in the sentence. His father, Anthony DiNozzo I, and he had been traveling from place to place ever since he could remember. To his father, it didnt matter though. He had a decent amount of money left over, and good looks able to get any high class woman for an able amount of money. It wasn't quite prostitution though, but it still made Anthony furious and ashamed. His father would bed the woman, court her, and call it off, with enough time to get enough of the unfortunate woman's money, and then let her free. He had done it for as long as Anthony could remember.

No, he thinks, he _does_ remember a time in which he was settled down. If he really tries to remember, he reminisces his mother's long blonde curls, and infectious laugh. But that is nothing but a faint memory, long gone, and nearly forgotten.

Throughout the day, Anthony's mind drifts to the masked woman in the red ball gown. A duchess, he assumes, as he heard something about her father throwing a ball sometime prior. His mind is ablaze with images of them dancing, her slight flirts, and the fire that raced through his body at the touch of Ziva's skin. At their evening supper, Anthony I invites a plethora of age-appropriate women for his son (and for himself, but Anthony chooses not to dwell on that topic) and he searched the rooms in hopes of finding the girl (no, _woman_) he danced with. As he is gallivanting across the dining room, he swears he sees a trace of her long, brown locks, but was unfortunately mistaken.

"What is the matter, son?" He hears his father's voice from next to him, "Several fine ladies here and you couldn't get your hands on one?"

"Father, if you must know, I am looking for a certain woman, but I suppose she is not in our attendance."

His father chuckles, "Fancying a dame? My dear boy, there are several mistresses here just _begging _for their hands on you! It is the DiNozzo charm, I tell you!"

And with that, Anthony withdraws and heads to the card room, escaping the narcissism of his father. The room is small, about the size of his chamber, with men circling around a table, smoking large cigars and drinking the finest brandy. He looks over the game, and recognizes it as the game of poker. The game is just starting, and the chips and cards are now being distributed.

"DiNozzo!" he hears from the corner of the room, seeing a man about his age, taller, with strands of light blond hair. The man, he remembers as his old friend, Tim, stands up from the table, and sticks out his hand. "Good to see ya, ol' pal!"

Anthony shakes his friend's hand with great enthusiasm, smiling and saying his informal hellos. There once was a time that they were using the proper formal dialect with each other, but the time is far in the past, and the men are like brothers.

"This man, here, is the greatest poker player you will ever meet!" Tim says, pointing to Anthony.

Anthony scoffs, shaking his head. "How much money did ya get for sayin' that, ol' sport?" The men in the room erupt in light chuckles and before long, he's invited to join the game.

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Before long, the game is over, and each man is either left empty handed, carrying some extra shillings, or in Anthony's case, pockets filled with winnings.

"Damn, remind me never to play against you again." Says Tim, swallowing the last gulp of brandy. "Thanks for the game. Abby will probably kill me when she hears of this."

"Likely, but she will probably run all the way over here to kill _me _too, strangling me with her hugs."

They share a short laugh, and enter the living room, sitting down on the couches opposite each other. All the guests have left, and Anthony I had retired to bed an hour ago. Anthony checks his pocket watch, being alerted the time was 1:47. He stifles a yawn, and relaxes into the warm material.

"How has life treated you?" Tim inquires. It had been years since Tim had last seen the lad, and catching up on lost time was necessary.

"Fine, I feel a Berber ever since we left." He says, and Tim scoffs. "I keep having to move and move to keep up with him. It doesn't feel as though I live on my own, having to travel around, leaving my jobs simply to live near him."

Tim sighs, silently agreeing with Anthony's rant. It is unfortunate, really. Anthony doesn't even live with his father, but he must follow him around to wherever his father flees to, simply to avoid his father doing things inappropriate for the man's age. Its a odd subject for both of the men to discuss, so the leave it be, and trail to another topic.

"Any women in your life yet?" Tim laughs.

"Every day, lad. I could share with you the stories of the lovely meetings with fine ladies if yo-"

"No!" Tim nearly screeches. He knows his friend loves women nearly as much s his father does, but he does not acquire the explicit details he knows his friend will give. "No need for that.. So, no lass to settle down with?"

Anthony's mind goes to the lady in red the night ago, and ponders his friend's question. _No lass to settle down with?_

"Only time will tell, Monsieur, only time will tell..."

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**I must thank you all for the kind reviews. They make my day so much better.**

**Have you guys read my Zombie apocalypse AU? It's called War Torn Towns and the first chapter is up on my page now ;)**

**Are any of you interested in Phantom of the Opera? It's an infatuation of mine, and I'll probably end up writing about a trillion phics for it... oops. **


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